


On the run. (Boyxboy)

by uncreative_phan



Category: Phandom/The Fantastic Foursome (YouTube RPF)
Genre: Cute Dan Howell/Phil Lester, Dan Howell/Phil Lester Fluff, M/M, POV Dan Howell, YouTuber Phil Lester, dan howell mum
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-02-28
Updated: 2018-03-15
Packaged: 2019-03-20 08:20:38
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 8
Words: 18,723
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13713714
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/uncreative_phan/pseuds/uncreative_phan
Summary: Daniel Howell's parents have big plans for him. Wanting him to be successful and conventional, they send him away to a boarding school. But a few weeks later, Dan is on the run.Trying to make sense of this world, he joins a group of squatters. The freedom they offer seems just what Dan needs. But their leader can't seem to make up his mind..





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Dan has an older brother called Harry.

Sometimes the danger signals are there, but it takes time to see them. Like my birthday last year and the arrival of Colin.

Friday, June 11th. The near end of my teenage years. A dark, dark day in the history of humanity. School's over for the week. I take the bus home, a familiar route that I can still remember - past the main road where several of my friends bundle off, shouting goodbyes to me, making plans for the weekend. Left down a quieter road, cross the heath to my stop.

I don't mind this walk home. It gives me time to get used to the quiet suburbia after the hustle and shouting of school. Past the newsagent's with all the notices in the windows. Across the road, through a park where people are exercising the dogs. And then into my road. 

What can I say about that road where I live? That it's quiet? That each of the houses has a proud little burglar alarm on its front wall? That the front lawns are as smooth and green as a row of billiard table? The street life down our way consists of Mr Harrington washing his car, Mrs Zimmerman's spaniel yapping as it's taken to the park? Anyway, it's home. I like it. 

On this particular day, I'm hurrying. It's the weekend, my birthday. That morning, I've opened my cards. Tonight, when Dad comes back, I'll get my presents. Down the path. On the door - Oh god, there are a couple of red balloons like I'm five or something. I open the door, my mum is in the kitchen, putting candles on a cake. She looks up and smiles at me. 

"Hey, birthday boy," She says, still smiling.

"Thanks for the balloons, Mum," I say. "Thanks for embarrassing me in front of the entire neighbourhood." 

"It's not like I  _embarrassed_ you, more like I'm still embarrassing you right now." I sigh. "You know I could've put up a massive sign saying 'Seventeen today - Happy birthday Daniel,' that would've been embarrassing. A couple balloons aren't so bad." My mum rambled on more about how much more she could've embarrassed me. 

I walk into the kitchen and peel a Tesco's price tag from the cake stand. "Thanks for baking me a cake, Mum," I say. "You shouldn't of bothered." 

She laughs, "I've got more important things to do than mess around in the kitchen, Daniel." 

There's suddenly the sound of a distant earthquake, a sort of rumble, growing louder and more terrifying as it approaches. My brother Harry is coming down the stairs. 

"Hi there little bro," he goes, ruffling my hair in the way he knows I hate. "Ready for your birthday treat?" 

"Birthday treat?" I ask, trying to duck away from his hand. 

"Yes." Interrupts Mum. "Your father will be home soon, he's bringing home a surprise." 

"Two surprises," murmurs Harry quietly. Now there's something about all this that makes me uneasy, a swiftness, like something in the air. For a start, coming home at 4:30 with a birthday treat doesn't sound like Dad. The treat I could just about believe but 4:30? What great event could get my father back from his place of worship, the office, at that time? His second son's thirteenth birthday? Possible, but very unlikely. 

-

Apart from being three hours ahead of his normal schedule, there are two things unusual about Dad when he arrives home that evening. The first is he doesn't make straight for the drinks cupboard. I'm not saying my Dad is an alcoholic or anything, it's just the closest distance from the front door. The second surprise is a small wire-haired terrier that's following him on the lead. My jaw drops. 

"This is Colin," Dad says, giving me the lead. "Happy birthday, Daniel." 

"I don't believe it.." I say, call me a softy but I've always been a sucker for dogs. I kneel down and lift Colin up and hold him close to my face. "Tell me I'm not dreaming." 

When I look up, I can't help but notice that mum has tears in forming in her eyes. Okay, something is definitely wrong here. "What's up mum?" I ask. "Will someone please tell me what's going on around here?" I say, waving my arms around dramatically.

"Good news and bad news.." says Harry. Dad gives him the dirtiest look, and I mean the dirtiest, the kind of look you give that pile of clothes sitting in the corner of your bedroom. He puts his hand on my shoulder, "We need to talk, Daniel."

-

The Howell family are currently sitting around a low table on which there's a Tesco's birthday cake. It hasn't been touched or even opened. 

"Look at him," I say, smiling at Colin as he sniffs his way around the room. "Making himself at home already." 

"Probably not house-trained," murmures Harry, slumped in a chair at the far corner of the room.

"Oh course it is," mum cuts in. 

"It's not an it. He's a he." I tell them both, smiling. 

Dan clears his throat and sits forward like he's about to talk through a meeting or something fancy. "Now, Daniel," he says in his best head-of-the-family tone. "I want to talk to you about school."

I groan, tell me something new. "On my birthday?"

"Today you are an old teen, nearly an adult. It's a very good opportunity to take stock of the situation where we now stand." 

"Right, dad.." I have no idea what any of that meant but I have a bad feeling about it.

"We both think that you're old enough to take more responsibility for your schooling."  _We both think?_ It's a if I'm no longer their son but some kind of stranger. Anyway, there's no stopping dad when he starts making on of his speeches. "As you know, Daniel, we've been rather concerned about your reports for some time. Frankly they're a big disappointment to me and-" 

I zone out. This is such an old record that I know the words off by heart. When my dad's little speech finally comes to a halt, I'm looking out of the window. "My report was better than last term." I say in my quiet, pathetic voice. "I was almost in the middle of my class." 

"Middle." Dad repeats. 

"Yeah, average." 

"Average." Is there an echo in here? 

"What's wrong with average?" I look to my mother for support but she looks away. Gee, thanks mum. 

"I'll tell you what's wrong with average," my father continues a bit more loudly. Oh god, here we go.. "Average means leaving school without A levels. Average means the dole queue. There's no place for average in this day and age." 

Harry shifts awkwardly in his chair, obviously hating hearing the conversation just as much as I hate being apart of it. "Average is average.." I try, staring up at my dad as if to say ' _I suppose you've never been average in your life, have you?"_

"We want better for you," mum finally speaks up. I'm wanting to die right about now. I'm definitely not happy about where this conversation is going. 

"So," my father leans forward once again. "We've been looking at Holton." 

"Holton?"

"Yes," dad sighs, "It's-" 

"The school you went to? I know." 

"It's good, Dan," my mother goes quickly. "Isn't it Harry?"

"Yeah, I know several lads who went there.. really enjoyed it." 

I feel like we're on some family Tv show, where we're trying to sort out a really shitty issue. You know? the kinda show where the host thinks he's the shit but everyone thinks he's an arsehole? Yeah them. If this was a Tv show, I'd be demanding a lie detector. 

"It's completely changed since my day," dad says. "It's got computers.. girls in the sixth form."

"But it's-"

"Very good for sport," dad cuts in.

"And not very far from here," mum adds. 

"It's a boarding school." I finally manage to get out. "I'd be away from home."

Mum smiles, a guilty smile. "We think you'd benefit from a bit of independence." I look from one parent to the other, then don at Colin who's sitting at my feet wagging his stub on a tail.

"So that's why I get a dog, after all these years," I say bluntly. "Like, sugar on the pill or whatever the fuck it is, right?" 

"Language Daniel." My mum shrieks.

"You'll love it, Daniel," dad states. "I had a great time. It helped me a lot."

And I see him with his grey, tired face and his grey suit and think: Yeah! Great recommendation, dad. I stand up and say, as cool as I can, "I'm taking Colin for a walk in the park." 

 

 

 

 

 


	2. Happiest day of not my life?

 

Imagine two lines of dense bushes. Between them, there's a long straight drive sweeping up to the entrance of a great, big old house, the sort of place you might be taken to on a sunday afternoon to look at pictures or at the garden.

Except, this is no visit; this is a school, Holton college. My father's in on of his jovial moods as, one september evening, we roll up the gravel drive. On the way here, he's treated Mum and me to a few long chapters from his 'amazing' time at Holton:

_'...the fights in the dorm!_

_...the day he wrestled the house bully and won!_

_...the time a pigeon was trapped in the main hall!'_

How exciting is a pigeon?  Please just give it a rest, Dad, I'm thinking as we approach the big main gate. He leads us into the school across quads, down stone corridors, past notice-boards. There are boys and girls wandering about, chatting, looking normal and generally happy. 

"That's a good sign," my mum whispers down to me as we walk across a big lawn of greenish dying grass. Yeah, a great sign, but where are all the new kids? Hiding in the toilets, right?

"Won't be allowed to walk on this grass from tomorrow," dad says to no one in particular.

What? "Why not?" I question.

"Scugs can't walk on the grass." 

I sigh and continue to follow him. I don't even know what a scug is and funnily I don't want to. I'm guessing it's another word used for new kids or something.

-

Eventually we get to a more modern building. It's Wolfe House, my new home.. great. At the front door, there's a little bloke with a red face and not much hair on his head. Judging by his face, the only ones who pay attention to him are the new kids and their parents. 

"Mr Watts, housemaster," he states with a parents-only grin on his face, his hand suck out to shake my dads hand. He turns to me. "And you must be Daniel."

"Yeah," my spidey senses suddenly sense a negative parent reaction. "Yes.." I try, not much improvement. "Yes, sir?" Mum and dad smile with relief. 

"Good lad," says Mr Watts, also known as Watto, Wattsy, The mad monk and other rude names dad has told me. 

As we make a little procession up the stairs, I breathe in the unique atmosphere of Wolfe House - toast, sour milk, aftershave and sweaty feet - that would soon become familiar to me, and be my natural scent. Please just kill me here. 

There's no one in the dormitory at the top of the stairs and, after Watto has left us, Dad and I go to fetch my suitcase from the car. Eventually I get rid of them, Mum all like chipper and damp-eyed, dad hopping around me doing the little dance which means he wants to hug me but can't quite summon up the nerve. In the end, I put him out of his misery and hold out my hand, which he shakes.

Then in a deep gruff voice, "Good luck, old boy." 

"Yeah, cheers, dad." 

And then I'm alone. 

-

No one who hasn't been to a boarding-school can know the weirdness, the loneliness of those first few days. It's like you're in another world where all things that have been familiar to you throughout your life have been taken away and there are totally illogical rules for everyone. 

We aren't allowed to telephone for the first three weeks, which is total bullshit, but I do write a few letters. Here's an example of one of many:

_'Dear mum and dad,  
_ _How are you?_  
How's colin?  
How's my bedroom?  
How's the house?  
How are Jody, Ben, Ellie, Marlon and all my friends from school?  
How's the newsagent where I used to get sweets?  
How's the kitchen?  
How's London?  
I'm okay, I suppose.  
love Dan (your son, in case you've forgotten)  
ps how's Harry?'

But this is not going to be the story of my terrible, terrible time at boarding-school, big tragedy. In fact, although, _I'm not exactly clamouring to get back there,_ I have some already made some good memories at Holton. At first it was strange but, like that pile of clothes, still growing in the corner of your room, you get used to it. At least most people do, there's one casualty in my year - not me, surprisingly, but he ends up being my friend. Quadir. He's asian and comes from Solihull. Like me, he arrives at Holton without a friend in sight but, unlike me, he hasn't gp the survival instinct.

Straight away, it's clear that Quadir is going to have a tough time. For the life of him, he can't get the hand of this place. Not only is he asian, which is apparently unusual at Holton. I don't get why? But he's also extremely clever, a bit tubby and can't kick a ball to save his life. Within the first few hours of us being at Holton, we have clocked a few basic unwritten rules for scugs. Which, I found out, is the really encouraging name they give to the new boys.

The rules are simple:   
1\. Do not do anything that will get you noticed.  
2\. Do not speak to people you don't know, unless you're spoken to.  
3\. Only make a noise, when everyone else is making a noise.  
4\. Do not answer back if one of the seniors asks you do to something, however annoying it may be.  
6\. Keep clear of Pringle.

Almost casually, a big innocent smile on his stupid little face, Quadir breaks these rules on after another. The guy is a death with on two legs. Now it's our first day of school, we've finished morning lessons, played a bit of football, at which I've shown my dazzling skills. We're now resting up in the dormitory, reading, thinking of home or getting to know one another. Quadir is lying on his bed reading a book that's about a million pages long. 

In walks Pringle and we all remember rule 6. "Coffee," he demands, standing at the door like the leader of Wolfe House. We all sit up and look respectful - all, that is, except Quadir who keeps on reading. "Who's going to get me some coffee?"

If you didn't already guess, Pringle is a mentally aged 5 year old in a 17 year olds body, whose goal is to make our life a living hell. He loves causing us all pain and striking terror in those younger than him, he hates all of us, but mainly Quadir.

For about thirty seconds, Pringle stands there staring across the room at Quadir, the full enormity of what's happening sinking through the zits and the short red hair and finally into his microscopic, but deeply evil brain. Then he assembles forward. 

"Um, yeah, I'll make you coffee." I say with a trembly voice - but Pringle walks past me and makes his way to Quadir's bed. Quadir just keeps reading.. does he actually want to die?

"What's your name then?" Pringle asks, bluntly. 

Quadir looks up and smiles, for fucks sake Quadir, "Quadir Miah." He puts a bookmark carefully in his book, closes it and extends a hand to Pringle. "Pleased to meet you."

Something unsightly is happening to Pringle's face. About three-quarters of it is going pale, the rest is covered in ragged mountain ranges of red, glowly zits. He ignores Quadir's hand and picks up his book at looks at like a gorilla trying to make sense of the ' _Collected Works Of Shakespeare.'_

"Great Expectations," explains Quadir. "Have you read it?"

"Great load of shit!" Pringle swears as he hurls the book across the room in my direction, I duck down just in time to hear the book crash against the wall behind me.

Slowly, and still smiling, Quadir sits up on his bed. He looks at Pringle and says, "You don't like books then?" Me, Chis and Pj are waiting for the explosion when Wattsy the house headmaster walks in.

"Everything all right, boys?" He says. "Ah.. hello, Pringle," a bit more nervous this time; even Wattsy's a bit scared of Pringle. "Introducing yourself, are you?" 

"Yeah." Pringle backs towards the door and sort of grimaces at Wattsy. "Just.. showing them the ropes, sir." 

"Good man. I just need to talk to you about last week's accident with the biology teacher, all right?"

"Yes." Pringle stands to follow Wattsy ou the door, before he leaves he glances lethally in Quadir's direction. His look screams 'you're dead meat.' Quadir only smiles. 

-

A boarding school is like a small island, densely populated with morons, psychos, loonies and with just a few normal people, nice people dotted around the place. When you're on this island, the outside world seems a million miles away and really important things - wars, riots, muse's new album - might as well be happening on another planet. On the island itself, what matters are scandals and excitements of island life, the fights, the rivalries, the campaigns of persecution. 

Right now, it's a war between Pringle and Quadir. It begins in the earnest of the very next morning, our third day at Holton. 7.30am, and the dormitory is just getting ready for breakfast when in walks Pringle. He's dare-foot carrying some heavy brown shoes. 

"Here. Clean these." He says throwing the muddy shoes on Quadir's bed. 

Quadir's collecting his files together at the time, he looks across from the cupboard where he's standing. "My parents were told by Mr Watts there was no bullying in the school," he says. 

"Well, your parents aren't here now, are they?" replies Pringle, not one of life's most brilliant conversationalists. He leaves the room saying, "If they're not done in ten minutes, I'll do your face some serious damage."

Now there's a problem for dormitory B. Three of us know that the sensible and best thing to do is sine those shoes but the fourth, who just happens to be Quadir, isn't going to touch them.  _'I'll talk to Mr Watts,'_ he keeps saying, the rest of us just telling him to do it.

"I'll talk to Mr Watts." 

"Wattsy won't help you," says Chris. "Grassing on Pringle's just going to make it worse." 

"You aren't going to be able to go to Wattsy everytime Pringle gets at you," adds Pj. 

As Quadir repeats his line, I step forward. "Give us those shoes," I say. "I'll do them."

Although we're all very different, there's sort of a sticking-together feeling in the dormitory. I polish away, swearing quietly to myself as I hear Quadir muttering, "No bullying, they told my parents. I remember that distinctly." 

The thing is - the rest of us had already realized this - once you're at Holton, the rules are made up as you go along. There's no such thing as 'fari.' Any promise made outside of the walls of the school is just a waste of breath. Quadir has difficulty with this idea. For a guy who's got nothing but straight A's his whole life, he can be remarkably thick.

Ten minutes later, old pizza fuck face is back. He looks at his shoes, shining neatly on Quadir's bed, picks them up and inspects them. "Better," he says. Do not say a word Quadir. Just keep your mouth shut for a change. 

"You should thank Daniel," he goes. "He did them for you." 

Shit. Pringle turns slowly towards me and grabs me by the collar, zits throbbing with rage. "I've been watching you, Howell," he spits at me. "And I don't like your general attitude, or your face." He drops me to the ground and I fall on my arse. 

"Gee, thanks Quadir," I say after Pringle has stomped out. "Remind me to never do a favour for you again." 

"You have to stand up to people like that." He replies casually. 

"Yeah," agrees Chris. "Particularly if you want to die."

Now here's a funny thing. Anywhere else, if someone with a reputation for being a crazed psycho took a dislike to a person four years younger than him, there would be a bit of sympathy for the victim, like solidarity, but not at Holton. There's a sort of vulture mentality here. No one likes Pringle, yet suddenly all the senior boys are joining in the game of calling Quadir names, picking him for being stupid, mental tasks. Although we manage to persuade Quadir to play along with them, not to fight it, he stubbornly sticks up for himself, ignoring the insults, showing no fear, working slowly, sometimes repeating  _'My parents were told there was no bullying in this school.'_

Meanwhile we're praying that Pringle will get bored with this game, or find someone else to persecute. "Just do it their way for a bit," i suggest as we prepare for bed. 

"You wouldn't understand," says Quadie, looking at me with those brown eyes which now have dark rings of tiredness under them. "If you let it pass, it gets worse."

-

It's saturday afternoon, Chris, Pj and I are returning to Wolfe house from football, a practice game in which I scored once and Pj twice, Chris made a couple of dazzling, jinking runs down the left wing and Quadir.. well... Quadir spend most of the afternoon facedown in the mud.

We shower, get changed and make our way back to the dormitory. The first thing Quadir does it check his bedside drawer for his holy book, his Koran. Religious note: to say Quadir is a bit religious is like saying Pringle isn't a psycho. Islam, his religion, is the most important thing in his life. At least once a day, he reads his Koran of his. I think it's like his way of praying.

At first, the rest of us take the mickey out of him for this. I mean, sorry about this, but my experience of religion consists of following mum and dad to church at Easter and Christmas, which has always seemed to be more social than a spiritual thing. I don't think God or whoever gets much a look in. With Quadir, it's different. The Koran, for him, is like totally sacred. He won't talk while he's reading it. We're not allowed to touch it. Even putting another book on top of it is enough to send his berserk, and we respect that. 

Now, this saturday afternoon, it's not there. For a moment, Quadir stares at the empty drawer. Then, slowly, he sits down on the side of his bed, puts his face in his hands and for the first time he's been at Holston, starts crying. Pringle's gone to far this time. As most people have discovered, I'm not exactly hero material. When I read about soldiers leaping out of trenches towards enemy lines or have-a-go heroes rugby tackling bank robbers, my first reaction isn't,  _'What a hero!'_ it's more like,  _'How do you have that much energy to run? I can't make it up my stairs without needing a break to breath.'_ So no one could be more surprised when I am walking down the stairs and knocking on the door of Pringle's room. 

An ape-like grunt, "Yeah," sounds through the door. My heart thumping, I open the door. Pizza fuck face is lying on his bed, reading a magazine. There's a pair of earphones on his cropped head and he's nodding slowly in time to some, what sounds like Twenty One Pilots, good taste if I do say so myself.

He looks up meanly and says, "what do you want then?"

"Could you give Quadir back his Koran?"

"What are you on about, Howell?"

"The book you took. Give it to me and I'll say you borrowed it because you were interested." 

He narrows his red-rimmed eyes. "Get outta here, you little toe-rag. I've warned you before."

"Quadir's crying."

"Good." 

Whilst I'm standing there, not certain what to do next, Pringle adds, "I'll give it back to him when I'm done with it." He nods in the direction of his desk where there's just a heap of papers and files, but no sign of any books. Then I see it. The desk is too small for Pringle and he's used four books to lift it a few inches. One of them is the Kiran, if Quadir sees this...

"That book," I say, giving it one last try, "is the most important thing in Quadir's life." 

"Oh, Howell, stop you're going to make me cry," Pringle says.

What do I do? Grab the book? Get punched by Pringle? Go back to the dormitory and tell Quadir that his sacred book was propping up Pringles desk? There is no other choice. I walk through the house, and into Wattsy's lair.

"Sir." The house master's in his sitting room, watching some old film on Tv. He looks up, not too friendly. "Pringle's taken Quadir's Koran and refuses to give it back."

"Koran?" I explain the situation. Casting a why-me sort of look in my direction, Wattsy struggles to his feet and tells me to return to my dormitory.

-

Pringle walks into the dormitory, about five minutes after I walked in, carrying Quadir's book in his hand like a waiter bringing a tray. Even the fact that Wattsy is shadowing him can't take the annoyance out of his step. He comes closer to Quadir, who's sitting on his bed. "I'm sorry to have borrowed your book, Quadir," he says in a sneeringly polite tone. "I would now like to return it." 

His eyes fixed on the Koran, Quadir takes the book, smooth's its cover once. Then, without a word, he puts in his drawer. As he turns, Pringle gives me the most poisonous look, then brushes past Wattsy and out the door. Wattsy glances disapprovingly at me. A 'don't you dare interrupt my saturday afternoon again,' look. 

"Pringle won't be bothering you again boys, get some sleep."

With that Wattsy leaves the four of us to sleep. 

 

 


	3. Chapter 3

 

Gating at Holton isn't exactly terrible; it's more embarrassing. It means you have to report once a day to a prefect who, if you're a sixth former like Pringle, is your own age. It's basically so they can be sure you stayed inside the grounds and your parents are informed if not.  None of this worries Pringle too much; nothing happens outside the grounds and I've never heard anything about his parents, maybing living seventeen years with pizza-face has driven them away from home. But he's annoyed. Really annoyed. 

By sunday morning, it's all around the house that somehow he's going to get me. The older boys shake their heads and laugh as they walk past me, or wander into out dormitory and just hang about, like sharks who have smelt blood. When it happens, which it will, they don't want to miss out on the action. 

-

You don't live in a big city all your life without learning how to avoid bother like this but this time, I let my guard down. I have other things on my mind. There's not exactly a queue for the phone that morning, but it's always busy. By the time I get through to home, it's already about ten thirty. 

"Oh yeah, hi," this is Harry, answering the phone like he just got back from a three hour nap.

"Hi," I reply. "What's been happening then?" To tell the truth, it's strange to be talking to Harry again, I almost feel shy. 

"Same old stuff. Another day, another nap, You?" 

I pause, where to begin. Quadir? Pringle? The fact that any moment the house goon could come round the corner and rip my head off? I settle with, "I'm fine." Communication has never really been that great between me and my brother, "Are mum and dad there?" 

"Er, not exactly." 

"What? You mean they're out?" 

"Mum's at church and dad's away for the weekend." 

"Away?" I can just about handle the concept of my mother going to church but there's something odd about my dad being away.

"Conference or something," Harry says, adding, "I don't think it's-" He hesitates, "- It's not exactly all quiet on the home front, to tell the truth." 

I sense that my brother is trying to tell me something important. Waiting for him to reveal exactly what's going on it's like watching him trying to cross a stream without getting his feet wet.

"You mean mum and dad..?" I try

"Right, Mr chalk and mrs cheese. 

"Harry ," I beginning to lose my patience here. "Just tell me what-" 

"It's all the time!" Suddenly, he's shouting down the phone. "Fights! Everyday! I don't know what to do, Dan. They just ignore me. At least when you were here, you knew how to distract them but now it's getting worse and worse. I don't think he's at a conference either." 

"Easy, tiger." I feel like I'm the older brother. 

"It's  _not_ easy," Harry wails so loudly that I have to hold the phone away from my ear. "Why did you have to go?" 

"Oh yeah," I try not to show how shaken I am by this news. "I'm miles away from home and it's still my fault. Can't you, I don't know, talk to them?" 

"Not my life, is it?" Harry sighs, calming down a bit. "But I guess I can try.."

"That's more like it," I say. Before he reminds me that it's a free country or some other shit, I say goodbye. 

Slowly, I make my way down the corridor, out of the house and through the quads and colonnades of Holton. The fact is, nothing Harry has told me is exactly a surprise. For as long as I can remember, my parents have been like two pieces of a jigsaw that only fit together when you force them. When I was very young, they'd laugh together a lot but all that seems a long time ago. Now mum doesn't even make jokes about dad's suits and I catch a look passing between the, which I really don't like. It's sort of cold - like disappointment. 

In the months before I left to Holton, the arguments between them grew worse. It was as if, when Harry and I were small, they held back but now that we're older, they assume we can take it all in our stride. Huh. It doesn't occur to them that the more you understand, the worse it is. Over the past year, many of the arguments were about me. 

- 

_Dad's view:_  
"He's lazy."   
"He has no interests." 

**Mum's view:**  
"He's just growing up."  
"There's football and his computer." 

_"Hasn't he got friends?"_

**"He's a loner."**

_"It's time he stood on his own two feet."_

**"You don't grow up overnight."**

_"At Holton, you do."_

**"Ah, yes, Holton made you the man you are today."**

_"And what exactly does that mean?"_

**"You know exactly what it means."  
**

_"At least I made something of myself."_

**"Yes, something - something I don't like."**

Etc, etc, etc - 

Because Harry's tactic was to storm off and lock himself in his room, it was always left me to divert the parents' attention from their row by asking dad about my homework, or simply by listening to them, looking tearful. The battle would eventually die down and, even if there was like a cold war in the Howell family, at least further bloodshed had been avoided. Until now: 

"Hey, Danny!" I look up and see that I'm approaching Wolfe House and that some of my friends are playing football on the green by the back door. "We need you," shouts Pj. "We're two nil down!" 

The last thing I'm looking for at this point is a game of football but the alternative is to sit in the dormitory while Pringle prowls around downstairs, so, "Yeah, why not?" 

Big mistake. We've been playing for about five minutes when Pringle emerges from the house, casual as could be. For a few moments, he just watches the game, hands in pockets. Then he asks, with an evil little grin, if he can play. Coming from Pringle, this is not a question. It's a statement. 

"Sure.." Chris says without obvious enthusiasm. 

Pringle walks onto the pitch and, even when I see that he's not wearing trainers but the heavy brown boots that I had once polished for Quadir. I don't see it, I don't see that he's not here for football. In fact, standing there, laughing as boys dance past him, he seems almost humanly normal.  _Almost._

After a few minutes, I've forgotten all about Pringle and I'm beginning to play a bit, relaxing into the game. It all happens near the other team's goal. I'm in possession of the ball and up against Tom, a big defender with a reputation for innocently sticking out a leg to bring down an opposing striker, who happens to be faster and more skillful than he is. The ball spins away from me as I hit the ground.

Then it's slow motion, Pringle advancing on me like a giant with volcanic rage acne. In the time he takes to cover the five yards to where I'm lying, I can suddenly see it all with perfect clarity. Why he's playing, what he's been waiting for, and what's about to happen. I see his boot arching back, then filling my entire vision until there's a great explosion of pain in my head. Then it all goes black..

-

"Where am I?" Yes, I really do say those words when consciousness returns. I don't say the other cliché line:  _'Wha- what happened?'_ Because as soon as my brain cells have picked themselves up and dusted themselves down, I know that with total, painful accuracy. Yes, my head has been used as a football by Pringle. 

"You're in the schools medical room." Mrs Dover, the schools nurse, is sitting at the end of my bed. Through my one working eye, I can see she's smiling. "I'd better get the doctor," she says. "He wants to get back for his sunday supper." 

Great, I'm thinking in an aching, woozy sort of way. Even when you get kicked halfway to the moon, you're taking up someone's time. The doctor arrives, a skinny young bloke, all stethoscope and impatience and as if I'm a thing and not a person, he prods me and shines a light into my eyes. He mutters something about me being all right after a good night's sleep and walks off. 

"That was quite a loud bang," says Mrs Dover when she returns to the room. She lays a hand on my brow and it feels cold. I close my eye. Now, Mrs Dover, I like; she's the first person at Holton who has treated me like a human being rather than a small criminal. 

Hang on. My eye? I snap it open. What the fuck happened to the other one? Carefully I put my hand on my face, another big mistake. My forehead is twice it's normal size. Without a word, Mrs Dover stands up and brings me a small mirror from across the room and holds it in front of my face.

"Fuckin- I mean Sheesh!" I go weakly. Talk about revolting. A great fold of misshapen blue and red has closed over my right eye, I'm like an understudy for an elephant man.

"Sheesh is right," Mrs Dover sighs, "You have to sleep now. You'll feel better in the morning."

Now here's a weird fact that I don't tell many people. I can see the future, not like who's going to win the football league next year but private things. For instance, I knew that it would all go wrong between my parents if I wasn't home. I knew that there would be a problem with someone like Pringle before I had even met that fuck face. I knew that I wasn't staying at Holton long. 

Maybe it was a dream or maybe, lying there in the dark after Mrs Dover had given me some sort of pill, I'm thinking a bit more carefully than usual. All I know is that, by the time I wake up the next morning, my mind is filled with an absolute certainty about what I'm going to do. 

I'm going home. I'm outta here. 

- 

The day passes slowly, particularly during the five minutes when Wattsy comes to call, fussing around the bed like someone who's been told to clean the bed with me still in it. 

"Heigh ho, Daniel!" he says. "You can't be any good at sport without the occasional accident." 

Accident? Accident my arse, I'm thinking. But my face is in no fit state to show any kind of reaction. There's a moment's pause and I sense that Wattsy's expecting me to do the decent thing and let him off the hook.

"Yes, sir," I answer eventually. "I'll have to be careful where I'm putting my head in future." 

"Good man." Wattsy smiles with relief.

"When am I coming out, sir?" 

"Tomorrow evening. Or the following morning, if you prefer. Just tell Mrs Dover when you're feeling up to it." 

 Perfect.

There's only one other problem and this I resolve when Chris, Pj and Quadir visit me that afternoon. 

"I need some cash." 

"In here?" Asks Chris. 

"Don't ask why." I look at Quadir, Pj gives a worrying look back to Chris. "I need twenty quid. Minimum." 

Now, Quadir is ~~very~~ extremely careful with his money. Only Chris and I know that he has a few notes stashed under his mattress because he doesn't trust the house pocket money system. 

"I'll pay you back?" I plead.

Poor Quadir's in agony. He loves his money yet no one's stuck up for him more that I have. "I've only got a tenner," he says weakly. 

"Come on, Quadir," Pj says. "Dan's just had his head kicked in for you." 

He nods miserably and stands up. "Can you bring me my jeans and T-shirt?" I ask. Quadir only frowns, then walks off with a shrug. 

"If he's not back in five minutes with the cash, I'm joining Pringles gang," Chris states. But luckily we don't have to worry about that. When Quadir returns, he hands me my clothes then passes me a small bundle of notes like it's some kind of really guilty drug deal. 

"Don't bother to pay me back, you earned it." He smiles. I look at the money, still damp from his palm. There's £25 there.

"Thanks, Quadir." 

- 

Mrs Dover hasn't been in Holton long enough to discover how well boys can lie. When I tell her on tuesday morning that I'm feeling well enough to check out, she sees nothing odd. 

"Are you sure you're better?" she asks.

"I'm fine," I say with a quick smile, and it's true that the swelling has gone down from my eye and I have my vision back again. She writes out a note on the clipboard she's carrying and puts it in an envelope. "Just give this to Mr Watts when you get back to Wolfe." 

I nod, taking it. "And Mr Watts expects you back today?"

"Yes, Mrs Dover," I grin, delivering my brilliant lie with toal collness. Fact is, Wattsy assumes I'm coming out the following morning, giving me a good eighteen hours to get away. 

I get dressed, pack my pyjamas, a toothbrush and a few other things in a small shoulder bag, say goodbye to the medical room and walk out of the building towards the exit. As soon as I'm out the drive, glancing as casually as I can manage at the boys playing football on the nearby pitches. Maybe Pringles there. Perhaps, I should walk up to him and say something so he knows this is all his fault. Then I shrug. Pringles history. In fact, Holton's History. I keep walking down the drive and soon I'm out of the gate and away.. to freedom. 

 

 

 

 

 


	4. Runner

 

Alone on a country road, a runaway with a bruised face, a shoulder bag and £25 in his back pocket. 

About half a mile away from Holton, I duck behind some bushes and change into my black T-shirt and jeans. I'm about to shove my dark school trousers into my bag when I remember I won't be needing them again, so I throw them in a nearby ditch, putting my white shirt and tie in my bag.

Tonight I see my parents, tonight we sort this thing out for good. I'll tell them about Pringle, the bruise on my face will do the rest. They'll think they're saving me when they ring up Wattsy and tell him I'm never going back to Holton but of course they'll be saving themselves, saving the family.

Back on the road, I stick out my thumb after about ten minutes this van pulls up, driven by a guy in his teens. "Kensington?" I ask hopeful.

"Could be. Jump in mate." 

-

The man looks across at me as we drive along the semi busy roads. "Been in a barney then?" He asks. For a moment I'm not sure what he's talking about, then I remember my eye. 

"Playing football," I say. "Got myself kicked." 

"Where'd you play then?"

"Striker."

"Glory boy, eh?" 

"Sort of," I'm glad the conversation is about football. As we approach the town, he tells me about which team he supports and I pretend to be interested. In no time at all, we've travelled five or six miles to the train station already. 

"See you then, glory boy," he says, pulling up behind a taxi. 

"Yeah thanks." 

"By the way," he leans over the seat, nodding in the direction of my bag as I jump out. "I'd lose the school tie if I were you. It's a dead giveaway." And he gives a odd sort of wink as he roars off. 

Standing there, I look down at my bag and see my Holton tie hanging out of it. I ball it up in my hand, and as casually as I can, drop it into a nearby bin. I feel a bit cold waiting for a train to arrive, so I put my white shirt over my black T-shirt, leaving it unbuttoned and hanging over my jeans. There's no way that I could be mistaken for someone doing a runner from a boarding school.

The train breezes in, bang on time by some miracle. Humming softly to myself, I find a quiet seat and check my money. £14.20 left. As the train begins to move, I stare out of the window, formulating a plan in my head. 

What do you think? Go home and throw myself on the mercy of my parents, right?

You're stupid. It's all very well throwing yourself on the mercy of your parents butm after they've finished being sympathetic as you grovel around, snivelling at their ankles, they begin to change. There's heavy talk of standing on your own two feet, living in the real world. As soon as the words 'real' and 'world' and mentioned, you know you're in trouble.

Say I went straight home to my mum. She's pleased to see me, yeah, maybe a bit shocked at the state of my face. Then dad comes homes, sees his boy back in the kitchen with his mummy, not standing on his own two feet, not living in the real world. 

So here's my plan:

**1\. When I get to London, I take the tube to St Paul's and walk to dad's office which I've visited a couple of times before.**

**2\. I don't go blundering in, taking dad by surprise when he's already pretty tense at work, instead I wait outside.**

**3\. He's tired at the end of a hard day but when his youngest son steps out of the shadows, his poor face horribly brutalized, it's like the ultimate family reunion scene.**

**4\. I suggest we go to McDonald's to discuss the situation. Although he normally hates McDonald's, he's so full of unfamiliar father-like feelings, he agrees.**

**5\. Over a big mac, I tell him everything. At the end of the story, strangely moved, he stands up and says: _'It's home for you, my boy. I'll ring Mr Watts tomorrow morning and tell him it's all been a mistake and that we're taking you away from Holton.'_**

**6\. Back home, it's all total happiness. Mum and dad look at one another over my head and even Harry allows himself to smile.**

**7\. Slow fade.**

**8\. Happy ever after.**

-

 All right, I'll admit it. I'm innocent, a stranger to the ways of the real man world. Meaning my plan may not go as I'd want.

There's a Starbucks across the road from dad's office and it's there that I wait for about half an hour. After the tube fare and a couple or cokes, I'm now down to a tenner and some change. Looking up from the crumpled money, I see dad standing on the steps outside of his office, looking at his watch. Dad and his secretary. 

At first, I don't see anything odd in this. Yeah, yeah, dad, say goodnight to her like a good boss and hurry, all right - your son is waiting to give you the surprise of your life. 

But then he doesn't say goodbye like a good boss. Instead, they walk down the steps together, turn left on the pavement and make their way slowly away from the underground station. It's different somehow. She's looking up at him and he's looking down at her and I'm thinking maybe a little too desperately that they go opposite directions.  

I follow them, keeping on my side of the street. They amble along for a couple of blocks before turning into some kind of wine bar. "Oh wonderful," I say to myself. "This is really great." 

I consider walking into the wine bar, and casually say I can say 'Hi dad, can we have a talk?' But I sense that, that might be a bad tactic. About thirty or forty yards down the road across the street from the bar, there's a step. I sit down on it, watching the bar the whole time.

This women, this secretary, I know her. What's her name? Jo, that was it. When I visited dad, she had chatted to me, fetched me a coke. I liked her. She is quite young, with curly black hair and, unlike Harry and his friends, she had discovered that she could smile and laugh and be normal. Another thing: she didn't play with her stupid hair all the time - this made her virtually unique among most the girls I know.

I'm deep in thought, hugging my bag to my chest because it's getting cold now, when I become aware of two big black boots in front of me. I look up to see a policeman. "Hullo," he says, in quite a friendly voice. "What are you up to then?"

I stand up. "Waiting for my dad," I nod across the street. "He's having a business meeting. He'll be out soon." 

It sounds good, even to me. The policeman, a young bloke, glances across the road. "So what's your name then?" He asks, casually. 

"Daniel Howell, sir." I don't look like a runaway. I don't sound like a runaway either. I'm just an innocent child, waiting for his dad to finish his business meeting.

"What happened to your face, Daniel?" He asks suspiciously. Oh, of course.

"God kicked in a football game." 

He smiles, "funny old game." 

Yes, hilarious. "Yes," I say. "It is." 

"Right, Daniel," the policeman says, becoming more business-like. "I'm just checking with headquarters." Before I can ask what exactly he needs to check, he's detached a walkie-talkie from his back pocket. "PC Marselis here.. possible runaway. Could you check the register? Howell... Daniel Howell." He waits for a minute or so, then the walkie-talkie crackles into life, he nods a few times then turns to me.

"Got any proof of identit-.. Ah here we are, a name tag." He says, pulling the back of my shirt. "D. Howell." 

As the policeman stares at my shirt as if there was a whole novel written there, I realise that I need to leave before his stupid arse figures out I'm the runaway. Luckily, I notice over his shoulder, dad emerging from the bar with Jo. 

"There he is at last," I say quickly, standing up and backing towards the street. "Thanks, officer." 

Dad's walking away from me so that, by the time, I've crossed the street he's twenty yards ahead with his back to me. I glance back at the Policeman's confused face and duck into the shadows of the buildings, still following dad. 

They're walking really slowly now, but I still don't know exactly what's going on. Then something happens that makes my stomach do some weird flip shit. Jo, the secretary puts her hand through dad's arm and they continue walking with linked arms. My father says something in her ear quietly and glances over his shoulder. They both laugh as if it was some really funny private joke. Oh, no. Not that. My brain cannot take this in. It's my father there, not some old corny businessman who fancies his secretary.

My first impulse is to turn and run, to scrub what I've seen from my mind, but I haven't got enough money for a train back to Holton. Anyway, I've thrown away my trousers and my tie. I lean against a wall, my heart thumping, my eyes tightly closed. Maybe. Just maybe I can't see the future so well.. because this was a total surprise. I still can't believe it. When I open my eyes, my father and his secretary or girlfriend or whatever the fuck are nowhere to be seen. I run to the corner and there they are, ten yards down a side street, bumping against one another as they walk like a couple of pathetic love-struck teenagers or something. I want to scream. Mum. All I can think about is mum. All those evenings when he used to come home late from work and it was, 'Oh, poor dad, stuck at work late again.' I swear that if a double-decker bus had careered the corner, mounted the pavement and crushed the horrible lying life out of those two, I wouldn't care.

After a few more yards, they reach this romantic little restaurant, pause, then walk in, my father briefly resting his hand on her 'lower back.' Hm, lower back.. more like her fucking arse dad! I'm going to be sick. 

Through the large plate-glass window, I see some waiter guy fussing them as if they were his best, regular customers. He leads them to a table near the back of the restaurant and my father pulls back a chair for the family wrecker. 

Standing on the street, I find my eyes filing with tears. Dad.. how could he? Whatever his faults, i'd always respected him, looked up to him and even loved him. Now he was just another middle-aged man trying to get laid by his young secretary. This is a new level of cliché, one that even Harry would be embarrassed to use. I'm so upset, that for a few minutes I forget about how hungry I am, how cold I am.. and how frightened. 

-

As darkness closes in, I sit on the pavement in a small alleyway, leaning against a wall, my teary eyes fixed on the romantic candle lit scene across the road. The first time I saw dad at work, away from the family, doing his deals it was quite an eye opener. We were going to a film or something in the evening and since it was the holidays, I was allowed to spend the afternoon in his office, it was a great treat for little Danny. 

At first he had tried to explain to me what he did for work, going into that weird language of his which consisted of words like, ' _debenture'_ and ' _eurobonds'_ but he seemed pretty busy, so he soon gave up.  The phone kept ringing, he was glancing at his computer screen by his desk like it was a TV with the best programme ever on it, while little Danny sat in the corner, sipping at a coke supplied by Jo.

Seeing Dad as his desk, in full money-making mode, I realised that i was seeing a different man here, that he Mr Respectable, the Mr manners man that I know from home was - this is unbelievable - completely relaxed. So relaxed, that he even swore! 

It's true. It's normal to hear it nowadays but eight year old Danny was horrified. Chatting on the phone to some other man, then suddenly:  _"Well, you can tell Smith to get his arse in gear! Otherwise I'll kick his fucking arse from here to Fire town! And we're not talking lower back here."_

_"wow,"_ I remember saying, after he slammed his phone down like he was trying to stun some small creature on his desk.  _"Tough guy."_

He gave me this strange smile, half-guilty, half-proud, one that I had never seen before.  _"It's the only language these people understand, Daniel."_

_"Sure dad,"_ I had only grinned at him. 

_"And if you tell your mother I swear like that, I'll kick your arse from here to fire town."_

We laughed in a sort of guys-together way, which made me feel good and grown-up. There he was back on the phone, giving it the old euro debenture blah blah blah, stock option buy sell blah blah, swearing down and then, winking at me with a grin. As Harry may say, he was as happy as a pig in it's own shit. 

Now, here on the street, I shiver at the memory. In a funny way, that's how he is tonight. His face, like his whole manner, is changed. 

It's dark now, slowly I get on my feet. I'll go home, keep quiet about what I've seen, then take the train back to Holton tomorrow. The future isn't looking that black, no one's dead or anything, it's just dark, a dark grey. The colour of one of my dads suits, just grey and bland.

Without thinking about what I'm doing, I walk across the road towards the lights of the restaurant, my shoulder-bag trailing behind me. For a moment I stand in front of the window, staring into it's candlelit warmth. Some of the other diners look up, I see them muttering to one another but even though my father is facing me, he's so busy looking into his secretary's eyes as she tells him some really fascinating story.

Then suddenly, dad leaves his trance and catches sight of me. His youngest son, a battered figure in a thin white shirt gazing at him out of the darkness. For maybe five seconds we stare at each other, I can tell he's trying to convince himself he's dreaming. It obviously doesn't work, as he half stands up in his seat like he's just seen the scariest ghost.

I run back the way I came, across the road, back down the alleyway. Nothing I could say to him will interest him as much as he's interested in Jo. I'm quite far away before I look back to see him standing outside the restaurant door, peering down the street. "Daniel?" He calls out, "Is that you? Dan?"

I should feel sad or guilty but now as I'm running towards the underground station, all I can feel is a knot of anger in my stomach. I imagine you'd feel the same if you'd just ricked everything, doing a runner from school to find your dad enjoying a romantic moment with his secretary. 

Dad in love with his fucking secretary.   
  


Excuse me, while I puke. 

 

 

 

 

 

 


	5. Bright lights, big problems

 

Things get worse. You think you've reached the bottom of the pit, that you can't get any lower. Then, when you get there, another deeper hole gapes before you and down you go again like the only place where it's all going to end is hell itself. Big drama, yeah? But last night was bad, the worst.

I get home at about ten or later. Just ring the doorbell. When mum has finished falling over me, i'll tell her about the Holton story and work out what I'm going to do about dad sometime later. 

But then I'm there, standing on the path, I hesitate. From the inside of the house, I can hear the sound of the Tv. I step up to the window of the sitting-room and through a crack in the curtains, I can see Harry sprawled over 90 percent of the floor, playing with his hair. I just know that if I blunder in there now, shivering, bruised, with the awful knowledge of where dad is, that it would be the wrong move. 

I can't explain this but nothing will make me ring that bell, shatter the peace of the family. Maybe I'll need to think it through by myself.

-

In the park that I used to cross on my way to school, there's a little shelter. I walk towards it, on my way I notice some bits of old carpet felt outside one of my neighbours' house. I take a couple of strips, then empty the rubbish from a plastic sack, making sure that nothing spills on the pavement. I smile to myself. Sleeping rough and I'm still worrying about litter, mum would be proud of me. The bag smells a bit but with the felt, it will make a sort of sleeping bag. Check me out, Mr boy scout of the year.

The railings of the park are easy to climb and luckily the local neighbourhood lovers have taken the night off so the shelter's empty. It takes ten minutes to set up my bed, using my shoulder bag as a pillow. Lying there, listening to the distant roar of the city, I think about my family and of the mess I'm in. Tonight I don't count sheep, but think of the millions and millions of reasons I hate my father. 

 **1\. He's a liar.**  
**2\. He pretends he's working amazingly hard when in fact he's dating his stupid secretary.**  
**3\. All he thinks about is money and obviously his secretary.**  
**4\. He probably sent me to Holton to get my arse out of the way.**  
**5\. He disapproves of everything.  
6\. he's as relaxed as a plank of wood.  
7\. he only gave me Colin because he felt guilty about kicking me out the house.  
8\. he swears a lot and pretends he doesn't.  
9\. he complains about everything mum does.  
10\. he thinks he's so perfect, he never had any problems at school.  
11\. he's always finding a fault with me.  
12\. he's a total hypocrite  
13\. he drinks.. a lot.. **

I'm probably about his thirty-ninth fault in when I must have drifted to sleep because the next thing I know is some stupid blackbird blasting away at the top of its lungs in a tree about two inches away from my head. 

I open my eyes. Over the rooftops, across the park, I see the first golden gleam of the morning. Another day. My bones ache as I sit up and bundle my bed into a nearby bin. It's as I, while I've been sleeping in the shelter, my mind has still been going. I know, with total certainty, that I'm never going back to Holton. More surprisingly, I realise that I don't want to go home until I've worked things out in my mind about mum and dad. 

I need time to think.

I want to make them think.

And, yeah, maybe I do want to punish them a bit.

-

Who do you turn to when you're out on the street, you have £8.60 in your pocket, your mind's a mess and you don't know where to go? Caspar Lee, that's who.

At my last school a lot of people - teachers too - thought Casper was a bad influence. They didn't like the way he walked, the little smile on his face when he answered a question, the sharp haircut, his easy, grown-up confidence. For them, Casper broke the rules - the rules of clothes and not talking assembly. It worried them that he knew all about living wild in London, and could also get straight A's in english, maths and art. He acquired a bit of a reputation as a bad influence, someone who corrupted the younger kids, just by smiling at them. I like Casper. Right now, as I take one last glance in the direction of my road, I need him. 

At first, I'm heading for the block of flats where Casper lives but then I think better of it. Casper's mum left home when he was six and ever since his step sister moved out, he's lived with his dad. I've only met Mr Lee once and he didn't exactly seem like the understanding type. So here I am waiting on a wall, aiming to catch Casper on his way to school.

It's five to nine by the time he emerges from the flats, swinging his bag, kicking a coke can along the road, same old Casper. "Hey dude!" Casper gives me a high five, as if we meet on this corner every morning. "What's going on?" 

And suddenly I can't speak. It's weird but after all the events of the last eighteen hours, seeing Casper ambling his way to school, so normal, just chokes me up and I start crying.

"Hey, Hey it's okay, Dan," he says patting my shoulder. "You have been in a fight?" 

"No." I touch my forehead, then rub my eyes, "I need your help, Casper."

He sits on the wall next to me, as if he's got all the time in the world. "Spill," he says. 

"You'll be late for school." 

"Exactly!" He tuts and I laugh. I give him the dited highlights of the last day or so, missing out Pringle - I mean, who cares about that Pizza face now? - and trying to explain why I can't go home. Casper smiles as he hears my story, "so you're on the street?" 

"Yeah.."

"Great," Casper claps his hands together. "Let's go get some breakfast and I'll tell you what we're going to do." 

"What are we going to do?" I ask, marching strides with him as we make our way through the park. 

"Well you're going to stay with my Step Sister Louise. It's a squat, no one will find you there." I swear this guy will be prime minister one day. 

-

I've never been to this part of London before but with the map Casper has drawn for me, I find my way to Louise's place, no trouble. It isn't what I was expecting. It's not a flat on an estate or anything but a big old house at the end of a road where most of the other houses have been knocked down. All the windows have been boarded up but there's no mistaking that this is the right street. 

There's no bell so, nervously, I lift the rusty old knocker and bang twice. No reply. I knock again.

"Yeah?" This is a man's voice from inside the house. It doesn't seem to be a very trusting neighbourhood, since she won't even open the door. 

"I'm here for.. uh Louise," I stutter. 

"Hold on."

There's another two-minute wait by the end of which I'm seriously thinking of running down the road. Before I can run, the deep voice chimes in behind the door, "Who is it?"

"Dan Howell. Casper sent me." 

There's another sound of about a million bolts, chains and locks before the door opens and there's a tall, jet black haired boy standing opposite me. Holy shit, he's hot. He's wearing black skinny jeans like mine and a long dirty blue shirt. "Striker." he spits. 

I hold out my hand just to polite, but he ignores it and rolls his eyes. After lowering my hand, he moves out of the way of the door to let me in. I slowly walk in taking my surroundings like a stray dog coming into a home for the first time. He closes the door, pushing back the blots so it's locked tight. "Security," I say, trying to smile.

"Yep.."

The hall we're in is big, dark and full of clutter; a couple of picture frames, a sack of coal, a cupboard on it's side and a half-assembled motorbike. I can just make out some graffiti on the walls, this place it my mother's worst nightmare. 

"Louise!" Striker shouts up the old stairs. "Casper's mate is here." 

A young blond haired girl, with dyed pink ends, comes running down the stairs. She's barefoot with a long baggy shirt over some leggings. Striker stomps up the stairs ignoring her presence. "Hey, I'm Louise," she says happily, holding out her hand before giving me a hug. Okay, this is different. 

"I'm Dan. Dan Howell." 

"Casper's friend. I know," she smiles. "I guess I will be showing you about this place." She leads me into a room with piles of unwashed plates everywhere, I guess this is their kitchen. 

"Coffee?" she asks, putting a kettle on to a gas-ring and lighting a match. It doesn't seem the right moment to ask for a hot chocolate like my mother makes, so I just nod my head. "So," Louise sits down at the kitchen table. "What's your story then?"

Over coffee, I explain to Louise everything that has happened in the last few weeks. "Hmm, I'm not to sure about this Dan." Louise says, more to herself than me. 

"I won't stay for long, just until I sort things out in my head." 

"The police will be looking for you by now. The last thing we need is those bastards breaking the front door down again. We'll have to discuss it when there's a house meeting." I check my cracked watch, wondering when this meeting will take place. I yawn, stretching my arms up above my head. 

"You can have a room at the top of the house and catch up on some sleep. I'll talk to Lester when he wakes up." 

Lester? Who or what the fuck is that?

 

 

 

 

 


	6. Hot wire

 

My room is sort of an attic at the top of the house. Left alone, I open the window to let some fresh air into the room that smells of old cigarette smoke. Then I lie down on the mattress in my clothes and try to work things out in my head. 

In one way, Louise is right. The word is already out about my escape from Holton. I smile as I think of the reaction at Holton and wonder whether, at last Pringle will get his reward. Imaging Watty's face, all weak and panicky, I know that nothing will happen. People like Pringle always get away with it. Then I'm back at home, or rather in a totally unrealistic dreamland version of home where dad's playing cricket with me in the park, mum's humming some old song as she's arranging flowers in the kitchen and Harry's actually smiling as he plays with Colin. 

"A week," I mutter to myself. "I'll go back in a week's time. They'll must have seen some sense by then." 

I must of fallen asleep in the middle or this major cliché attack because the next thing I know there are loud sounds from downstairs, voices and heavy feet on the bare floorboards. 

For a few seconds, I think I'm at Holton. Then realising the truth, I sit up on the mattress. For some reason I remember one of my mother's favourite sayings;  _Another fine mess you've got me into._

Trying to look as if squat life is no big thing to me, I wander downstairs, my white shirt hanging over my trousers. In the kitchen, two boys and a girl are sitting at the table, eating toast. None of them seem particularly surprised or interested to see me as I stand in the doorway. 

"Cup of tea?" asks the girl, who has semi long hair. She's short and has kind of smooth, round features that remind me of Harry. 

"Thanks," I say.

"Mug's in the sink." I was out a grimy old cup, sit at the table and pour myself a cup of tea. One of the guys, the taller of the two, glances up at me with a despairing look as if I've already said something totally stupid. 

"Who you with then?"

I allow a few seconds of silence to go by, slow motion conversation seems to be a fashion around here. "Louise. I'm a friend of her friends," I explain. 

"Hm, something tells me-" says the boy that looks oddly similar to the girl "-that Lester isn't gonna like this one bit."

"Got money?" asks the girl again.

"A bit.."

"How much?" From the way the three of them are staring at me, I sense that this is another dangerous question.

  
"Six pounds ninety.."

  
"Oh. wonderful." This is the other boy, he has short brown hair and he's built like a bull, his head seems to be too small his his broad, muscular shoulders. He looks at me with a kind of open hostility that reminds me of Pringle. "Another bloody scrounger." 

"Let's have it then," the girl holds out her hand. I look at her straight in the eyes, giving a questioning look. "We've got to buy some food," she explains with slow sarcasm.

"Louise told me we'd sort that out later," I say. With a coolness which surprises me, I stand up. "Thanks for the tea," I say and wander out of the kitchen, up the stairs towards my 'room'.

- 

As I walk down the corridor on the first floor, a door opens. It's Striker. "Met the gang have you?" he asks, quietly closing the door behind him. Why is he suddenly being nice to me?

"Sort of.." 

"Don't worry about them," he glances downstairs. "We're all just young." 

"I didn't catch their names..?" 

"The girl's Zoe. The short boy that looks like her is Joe, they're siblings, and the other boy is Oli." Striker glances back downstairs before turning to me and saying; "Hey, let's talk in your room? I uh, don't want the others to know I'm awake." 

I must look confused because he then explains, "I'm not normally up until dark.." 

"So what you're like Dracula?" I joke. 

"Yeah," Striker giggles. God he's adorab- wait no. "Just without Dracula's sense of fun." 

-

In my room, we sit oddly close together on my bed and Striker tells me about the squat, the people who live here and the rules of the place. He seems to know a lot. 

Considering he's a runaway, Striker's very concerned about my family. I was going to call them tomorrow morning, but he insists that I ring them today and tell them I'm alive. 

"Do it for your mum," he says. "She'll be worrying." 

"Maybe.." 

Striker digs into the pocket of his jeans and pulls out a key. "It's a spare, keep it while you're here. There's a call-box on the corner." 

- 

Walking down the road, I'm suddenly no longer certain what to say. None of the reasons I have running away - Pringle, Dad and his girlfriend - somehow seems to make sense anymore, yet I know I'm right. As I approach the call-box, I find myself praying that it's out of order, or that my parents are out.

  
"Hullo." It's Dad and I hardly recognize his voice because he normally snaps 'Howell' down the phone as if he's the biggest man in the world. "Hullo?" Dad repeats. Of course, he must be pretty busy with all the different lives he leads - Businessman, father, hot date for his young secretaries. "Hello? Daniel is that you?" In my mind I see him laughing on the street outside his office, glancing carefully over his shoulder as she puts her hand through his arm. "Daniel, listen, we need to-"

  
I hang up. Right now I couldn't talk to my father if he were the last person in the universe. 

-

I'm still hearing his voice when I re-enter the house and walk up the steps. From across the kitchen, there are voices and, still thinking about my family, I walk in. It's big, this room. It must have been quite smart sitting room years ago. Now there are a few beaten up armchairs and a big television set in the corner. From the way everyone looks at me as I walk in, I can guess the subject of conversation.

  
"How was home?" Louise's sitting by the window. There's something about her determinedly cheerful smile that makes me nervous. 

  
"Home was good," I say. "They seem . . . fine."

The brown haired boy, Oli, glances up. "Got the cops on you yet?"

"No."

"Dan, there's a bit of worry that you might bring the police here," Louise says quietly. "It's very important that we're left alone."

"Look." The girl I now know as Zoe turns her back on me as if I don't exist. "I'm sure he's a nice kid and all but let's face it, he's just a boy who's had a little bit of an argument with his mummy and daddy, I mean-"

Who's she calling a kid? she's not exactly fully grown herself. I take a closer look a Zoe, then at her brother Joe and Oli. For all their swearing and tough talk, they're no more tan kids themselves - fifteen, sixteen at the most. 

"He stays." Striker walks into the room. My cheeks suddenly turn a bright shade of pink, "For the moment the boy stays." 

"The boy?" I chuckle. "I'm pretty sure you know me Stri-" Striker gives me the dirtiest look I've ever seen and I shut up quickly. 

"I don't know you at all. In face, I've never seen you in my life, kid. The name's Lester." Oh so he's this Lester I've been hearing so much about. 

"He's only got fucking six pounds ninety." Joe mutters. 

"He'll pay his way. Won't you Stan?" Striker gives me another look, but this time it's more of a smile, a smile that makes my heart flutter. 

"It's Dan and sure," I say. "When do I start?"

Striker looks over his shoulder, out of the window where already darkness is closing in. "Tonight." 

-

"So are we going to talk about the fact you don't know me, Lester?" We're back alone in my room, everyone else is either asleep or out working. You may think I'm being a petty bitch to Striker, considering I haven't known him that long. Well, you're right. I haven't known him for more than a day and I already feel a good relationship with him, and because of that I'm pissed that he pretended not to know me. 

"Phil. My name's Phil, Phil Lester. Striker is just a stage name." 

Phil.. his actual name suits his personality and adorableness better. 

"Okay then, Phil Lester, why don't you know me?"

"I'm sorry I panicked,"  _Phil_ stutters, "these guys think I'm the biggest bad ass out there, that hates everyone they lay their eyes on. They'd never listen to me if they saw I had a soft spot for a guy I barely know." 

"You have a soft spot for me?" I ignore his explanation and focus on the last bit, blushing at his comment. I'm still annoyed at him for pretending to not know me, but this makes it a little bit better.

"I, I um I . . ." Phil stutters once more, "Look that doesn't matter right now, you have a job to do. Come on."

  
Before I have time to argue he's directing me to follow him downstairs, which I do. It's a warm autumn night and, under the neon street lights, we talk quickly for about fifty minutes. I notice that Phil or Lester is glancing casually at the cars parked by the side of the road. He leads me off of a main street down a smaller alley behind a garage. There's a yard at the back protected by a high wire fence through which I can see about six cars. Phil stops and with a quick nod of the head says, "Up." 

The fence must be over twelve foot high and has some barbed wire along the top. I've seen friendlier-looking fences. "Halfway up there's a gap," Phil whispers. "Get through and undo the bolts the other side."

A gap? It's a rat hole about ten foot off the ground. The fear of an angry Phil and being caught is the greatest motivator ever. I climb the wire quickly and, wrenching back some of the loose strands, wriggle through the hole. At one point, I'm half through, upside-down, looking at the ground beneath me. Then, with a tearing sound that I later find is my shirt and half of my back, I fall forward and let myself fall to the ground.

Phil nods to me with a warming smile through the wire, as if he'd expect any thirteen year old stranger to be able to do this. "Bolts," he says. "Draw them back quietly."

As I open the gate to allow Phil into the yard, I glance at the cars. They're black, they're new and they're BMW convertibles. "Sit down," Phil orders and I immediately sit on the cold concrete. He ducks down and pulls out a long wire from his pocket, crouching beside one of the cars, he inserts it into the door. Within a few seconds, it's open and Phil is inside, cutting at something under the steering column.

"Bypass the fuel cut-out," he says to himself. "And hot wire.." he takes two wires, touches them to a third, and then the car purrs into life. "Gate." Phil whispers, talking to me this time.  

Almost sick with fear, I run to the gate and open it. Slowly, quietly, Phil edges the BMW forward until he's level with me. He nods in the direction of the passenger seat, "want a lift?" He winks at me, giving me an adorable smile. Oh god. I jump in and the car eases forward, down the side of the street and onto the main road. 

"Not bad," Phil mumbles, as he switches on the car radio. "Not bad at all." 

He's probably talking about the car, but I don't care, I take it as a compliment and smile to myself. We drive for about thirty or forty minutes. Once or twice I catch a few drivers that are glancing weirdly at the car while we sit in traffic, then at Phil. The strange thing is he looks the part - he has the manner, the style of someone who would on a car like this, not because his parents gave it to him, but because he's worked for it. 

"Here we are," By the time we've arrived we're near the south of London. "Follow me," Phil says, parking the car near some terraced houses then getting out, leaving it running. He walks up the path to one of the houses and rings the doorbell three times.

 The man who answers the door is in his fifties, big with greying hair and an unsmiling mouth. "Took your time," he says, sarcastically. 

In reply, Phil just holds out his right hand. The man grumbles but reaches into his back pocket and pulls out an envelope which he hands over. "We need a lift." Phil states. 

"Get a taxi." 

Phil gives him this slow burn look, the sort of look which makes people change their mind. "A lift," he repeats, slower this time. Swearing the man goes back into the house and returns with a slim, blanding character in his thirties. 

"School outing, is it?" the man jokes, pushing past us both. We follow in our own time as the grey haired man drives the BMW away. Phil holds open the door to a dark green Jaguar. He winks again as I climb in.

"Home, James," he says quietly. The driver mumbles a few words before we're on our way. 

-

Back at the 'house,' Louise cook us the biggest, most unhealthy fry-up you can imagine. As if it's an agreement between us, we don't talk about the job at first but eat up with the quiet satisfaction of workers at the end of the day.

"So," Louise lights up a cigarette as she watches us eat. "How did it go?" 

"A natural," Phil smiles, carefully folding some bacon into to pieces of bread. "Might have been doing it his whole life." 

"Well I never," Louise says grinning. "Daniel the cara thief." 

My back's hurting where the wire scraped me, tearing my shirt, but I don't want to spoil the moment by saying anything so I just smile in response. Getting a few cuts and bruises got with the job, I suppose. Phil seems to notice my discomfort and keeps giving me worried looks. 

After we've eaten, Phil counts the money in the envelope given to him by the middle aged man. There must be at least a few hundred pounds, he peels off a £20 note and gives it so me smiling. "That should keep the others happy."

"Thanks," I pocket the note. It's the first money I've ever really earned and I feel strange about it. "What do they do?" I ask curious. "The others." 

"Big of thieving.." Phil mumbles, frowning slightly. "The usual stuff.."

"Cars, like us?" 

"Don't ask, Dan," Louise buts in. "You don't want to know." 

"They know about me," I argue, more confident now. I don't like the thought of Joe, Oli and Zoe having an advantage over me. 

"Joe burgles houses," Phil says, pushing the night's earnings into the back pocket of his jeans. "Oli sells drugs, and Zoe is a prostitute." 

"Oh.." I nod. Yeah, okay sure, good - burglar, drug dealer and a prostitute. "Aren't they a bit young?"

Louise gives me a sad smile. "Only in years." 

- 

It must be nearly five in the morning before Joe wanders in, glancing resentfully at our empty plates. "How did it go?" he asks to no one in particular. 

Since neither Phil or Louise go to answer, I say, "all right.." 

"Welcome to the brotherhood of thieves. When will you do it without someone holding your hand like a baby?" For the first time that evening, Phil stares at Joe coldly. 

"Joking?" Joe says weakly. "What's happened to every one's sense of humour?" Phil breathes deep on his cigarette and ignores what Joe said. 

 


	7. Front Line

I'm awoken early the next day - this is, about lunchtime - by the scrape between my shoulderblades. It's throbbing now and, on the grey sheets where I've been sleeping there are blood stains. I look at my back in the mirror. It's worse than I thought - the long gash from my right shoulder extends about eighteen inches downward and glistens red and swollen. 

Trying to ignore the pain, I sit at the table in my room, turn over the note given to me by Mrs Dover at Holton and lay it in front of me. At first, I'm going to write to my mother but then I know I couldn't say what I want to say to Mum on paper, so I write:

_Dear Harry,_

_I'm okay. I'm safe and looking after myself but I need to work a few things out, Dad will know what I mean. Please tell Mum and dad not to involve the police. This is a private matter. When I next ring, I'll talk to you and no one else. I'd like to collect Colin some time, if possible, but I won't if I'm going to be tricked into coming back. I'll do that in my own time._  
I hope I'm not causing too much trouble.  
Love to mum.  
Dan

All right, I realise there are a few surprises in this letter. For example, why Harry? and the business about my dog - is that cliché or what? I never thought I'd say this but brothers have their uses. Harry will understand in her own way, I'm sure, he'll keep cool.

As for Colin, I just want to see him. Maybe he was like a bit of home for me, maybe I have this crazy idea that he's being forgotten in all the excitement. Colin would really like this squat. 

-

At about three in the afternoon, I hear Zoe and Joe go out and, putting on my torn shirt, I go downstairs and knock on the door of Phil's room. He seems to be talking to someone? but everyone has gone out.  As soon as I knock on the door he's quiet.

"Yeah?"

I open the door to see that he's sitting with his back to the door on a little stall in front of this camera thing. In his hand is a black paint brush, the painting that's taking shape in front of him isn't that good, but you can tell it's meant to be a person. 

"What are you doing?" I ask coming into the room, closing the door behind me. 

"I.. uh sometimes film videos and upload them to youtube.." he mumbles, blushing. Phil's wearing a blue shirt with nyan cat on it, torn jeans and no shoes. He looks great. 

"You're a youtuber?" 

"I only do it as a pass time not for the money.. and sometimes I get bored so I talk to the camera." He says. "None of the others know about it so hush hush." He glances at the letter to Harry in my hand and smiles; "Envelope and stamp?" 

I like the way Phil's always one step ahead of everyone else. "You read my mind," I giggle. 

He giggles too as he opens the drawer in the table by the bed, which I can't help noticing is so pristine compared to the rest of the house.  Phil gives me a confiding smile, "I like my bed tidy."

I don't want him to see me blushing, so I turn away to look out of the window. "Oh shit, Dan," he says suddenly. "Your back, I almost forgot. Why didn't you tell me?"

"It's nothing," I say in my most tragic voice. 

Phil's carefully pulling back a flap on my torn shirt. "Sit down," he says pointing to the stool where he was sitting before. "Take it off." 

I like it when people take control like this, I'm a real sub. Unbuttoning my shirt, I glance over my shoulder and see Phil taking some cotton wool and a small bottle out of a corner cupboard as if medical emergencies are an everyday thing for him. Stamps here, disinfectant there. "You're very organized," I comment.

"Someone's got to be." He sits on the side of his bed. "Bring that stool over here." 

Laying one cold, pale hand on my shoulder, he dabs at my cut with the cotton wool and disinfectant. It's painful but in a nice, reassuring way that reminds me of times I used to fall off of my bike and have my knees repaired by Dr mum when I was a kid. 

 "Aaah," I arch my back as the cut stings under the disinfectant. I can't help it but I'm laughing at the pain, Phil laughs too. 

"Stop wriggling," he says. "You're a wimp, Daniel." 

"It's fucking agony." 

"Florence NIghtingale strikes again." Suddenly Louise's standing at the door, watching us. She has a massive grin on her face and her arms are crossed. 

"Uh.. Dan cut himself," Phil says.

"On a wire last night," I try explain. 

"Mmmhmm," Louise's smile just grows wider. "You don't need to make accuses to touch each other, boys, I get it." She winks before she walks away. 

Me and Phil fall into awkward laughter, ignoring what Louise hsa said, Phil stands up and picks up my shirt. "This is no good.."

"I can ask Louise to sew it up," I suggest. "It's the only shirt I've got." 

Phil opens a drawer and hands me a yellow adventure time hoodie - it has Jake's face printed on it. It smells faintly of Phil, and funnily enough, I don't mind that one bit.

-

A week and a half passes like it was a day. Soon I get into the rhythm of the squat, going to bed when other people are going to work, getting up after lunch, eating whenever you feel like it. Every night, I'm out to work with Phil, meaning I get to see him more than anyone else. Throughout the last week we've become best friends, doing everything together like we've been friends our whole lives. 

However, thoughts of home sneak up at the most unlikely of times. I'll be standing in the shadows on the street and suddenly I'll see mum in the kitchen or wonder whether dad's still seeing that secretary whore of his. Then I snap out of it. 

My relationship with Zoe, Joe and Oli do not improve. Zoe, in particular, treats me as if I've just crawled out from under a stone. Her moods bewilder me at first. Some nights she's loud and happy, laughing at virtually anything, the next she's pale, with great rings under her eyes, and seems almost unable to speak. Maybe it's her work. Maybe it's the pills I've seen her taking. I don't want to know.

-

It's friday afternoon when I leave the house and walk to the telephone box on the corner. Twice my father answers, I hang up without a word. The third time, they get the message - it's Harry on the line. 

"Hi," I say. "It's me." 

"Where are you, Dan?" My brother sounds really scared. 

"Around. I'm okay." 

"Listen," he starts. "I don't know what all this is about but you've got to come home. We're all dead worried about you. Dad hasn't been to work all week.." I'm thinking, 'wow big deal,' but can't seem to say anything. "If it's about school, Dan," Harry continues, "just come back and we can talk about it. You're making us all sick with worry." 

"Have you told the police?"

There's a pause and I can hear voices in the background. "Of course, we had to. Listen, mum wants to know if you're eating all right. She's here if you want to-" Slowly I replace the receiver. I'm not stupid. I've seen the films, calls can be traced if you talk for too long. 

-

Something strange is happening when I get back to the squat - Zoe is doing the washing up. This is unusual to say the least. "Hey, kid," she says as I walk in.

Under normal circumstances, I don't answer to this name she's given me - strange as it may seem, I;m not happy about the idea of being patronized by a fifteen year old - but right now my defences are down. 

"Hi," I mumble." Can I help?"

"Sure, kid." There's a dirty old tea cloth on the table, I pick it up and start doing some drying up. It reminds me of being at home, in the kitchen with mum and Harry. Zoe's humming this tune. It's such a terrible noise that, although I'm feeling down, I smile.

"Nice song," I chuckle.

"Cheers," says Zoe, giving me a sideward glance. "So when are you going to be on your way, kid?" She asks. 

"Dunno. When I've sorted things out."

She sings a bit more. "I'd make it soon if I was you." Yeah? thanks for the advice, Zoe. "Your folks will be worried."

There's one thing I know about Zoe, and that is that she doesn't give a single shit about me or my family. "They're okay," I say. "I just spoke to my brother. It's under control." 

"Listen," Zoe glances towards the door as if to check we're alone. "You don't know Striker like I know him.-" Striker? Ohh Phil, I forget no one else knows his actual name - "When you meet him it's all Mr concerned, Mr generous. Then he changes. He smiles but in reality he's a cheating, lying arsehole." 

"I can look after myself. Where you guys a thing? Then he cheated on you?" 

"No, he was with my brother, Joe. Joe really liked him, like really really fucking liked him, maybe even loved. And then Striker fucked some other guy and Joe caught them." 

"Oh.. but what's this got to do with me?"

"Are you really that blind, Dan?" she spits, washing out a mug. I shrug. "Don't say I didn't warn you." 

At the time, it's true, I have no idea what Zoe's on about. I just put this heavy warning down to one of her weird moods. "Where's Phi- Striker now?" I ask. 

"He's in bed," Zoe gives a cold laugh. "Where else?"

-

Zoe's advice is good. Although she probably has her own selfish reasons for wanting me out of the squat, but her instinct that there's trouble on the way is right. Not that I see it that way at the time. I'm thinking, a few more days and I'll be home, having worked things out in my mind. I imagine this big man-to-man scene with my father, perhaps after mum and Harry have gone to bed. 

-

_Me: Look, Dad you know why I did what I did. I'll say nothing to mum if you face up to your family responsibilities._

**Father: I hadn't realized you felt so strongly about it, Daniel.**

_"Dan. It's Dan now."_

**"Sorry, Dan."**

_"So it's agreed. You spend more time with mum and I promise never to run away again._

**"Yes, Dan. Agreed. Now about school-"**

_(Giving him a cold glare) "What about school?"_

**(Nervously) "Er, nothing. You just tell me what you'd like to do."  
**

**-**

It's a pathetic dream, of course. Two days, maybe three, into my life on the run, I might have been able to go back and face my father but now it's all gone too far - or at least it has after the events of the weekend. 

Phil has noticed that, after calling home, I'm quieter than usual. On the friday night, everyone is out working apart from me and Phil, so we're alone watching a film on the television. Except I'm not concentrating on the film but thinking of home and how different Harry sounded on the telephone. 

"I think I'll get my dog tomorrow," I say, as casually as I can manage. 

"Yeah?" Phil looks pleased. He loves animals and I've hold him all about Colin.

"Will the others mind?"

"Well I love dogs," says Phil. "So they're going to have to deal with it. Are you missing them?"

I shrug. "I just want my dog. I'll wait until my brother takes him for a walk. Then I'll explain to him that I need Colin and that I'll be back home in a couple of days."

"He'll accept that?" Phil's not looking at the screen anymore. 

"He'll have to." 

"I'll come with you," he says. "Your brother might be being watched. The police are clever like that." 

"Thanks, Philly." Phil gives me a funny look, which I don't understand at the time, then just giggles and continues watching the film.

-

The next morning, Phil bangs on my door to wake me up. It's nine-thirty. The first time we've been up before lunch since I've been here.   
This is our plan: 

1\. From the far side of the park, we wait for Harry who would never take Colin out before ten.  
2\. I point him out to Phil.  
3\. He checks around the edge of the park to see whether Harry is being watched or followed.  
4\. I move in, tell Harry we need Colin.   
5\. We run FAST out of there. 

I'm expecting the sight of the park to make me feel homesick but, I'm too engrossed in my conversation with Phil to notice anything. Now we're away from the squat, he seems more relaxed and more himself. For about ten or fifteen minutes, we sit under a tree talking about this and that - his home, Louise, how he became the leader of the squat. He's smoking a cigarette, I'm chewing gum; it's so nice I find myself hoping that Harry and Colin will wait for a while before making their appearance. "So that's how you ended up as a squatter," I say.

"Yeah, me, the house mother, and Joe. I can't believe it really." 

"If it wasn't for Joe, you wouldn't be here?" 

"I doubt it, he's the one that found the squat house."

I still have no idea where the next question came from, how it hijacked my brain. "Did you-" I hesitate. "Did you cheat on Joe?"

"Aah.." he sighs. "It was a drunk mistake, I still feel bad and apologize for it to this day. We're friends now." 

There's something about Phil's manner that suggests it would be a bad idea to press this further. "I think that dog of yours is going to have to wait," he says quickly, looking across the park. I follow the direction of his eyes. Near the swing set there's a bench, where a guy with

a moustache is sitting, reading a paper. "Police," Phil explains. 

"How'd you know he's a policeman?" I ask but, as I speak, the man looks over his paper in our direction. 

"Here, quick," Phil says, holding his hand. "He's seen us." And suddenly I'm walking hand in hand through the park with Phil. "Good thinking, huh?" he says. "Runaways don't wander about with their boyfriends." 

I feel the blush on my face rise and look away, "Sure," I say faintly. "Young love, right." Phil just squeezes my hand. 

I take a peek over his shoulder and notice that the man is once again reading his paper. We turn out of the park, but Phil's still holding my hand. Around a corner then he stops, like someone who's forgotten something. "That was for him." He steps closer. "This is for me.." and before I can say anything, he's kissing me, I'm kissing him. We're making out. After a few seconds of shock, I realise what's going on and move my lips slowly against his. At that moment, I've forgotten about home and school. I'm so happy. 

Then, just as I'm wondering if I should be doing something with my hands, he breaks away and marches off down the street, singing out, "Shame about your dog, hey?"

"Y-yeah," I stutter, following him, my heart thumping. 

Sometime later, we're emerging from the underground after a journey passed in almost complete silence, when Phil says, "I shouldn't of done that, Dan." 

I shrug, "It was nice, I enjoyed it." 

"But I didn't even ask if you wanted to kiss me, we're best friends, I shouldn't of risked it, Dan I'm sor-" I cut him off with another kiss. 

"Phil, it's okay." I say, still holding his cheeks. 

"Okay.." he smiles. "Let's just keep this between us though," he says before kissing me again. 

 

 

 

 

 

 


	8. Party Time

 

Sometimes I think I'm one of those people who rub other people the wrong way, almost without trying. Like at home, I annoy my dad so much that he decided to send me to Holton. At Holton, Pringle decided that, of all the new people at Wolfe, I'm the one that needed my face kicked in. On the run, the first thing i do is discover the biggest secret in my father's life. By some miracle, the person that runs the squat lets me work with him. And what happens? We get close and I fall for him.

The fact is, until now I've no idea that the situation with Phil is getting dangerous. We're friends, we talk. Does that make me an enemy to the Sugg siblings now? Ridiculous.

All right, maybe it's not that ridiculous. It's true that I like Phil a lot, that something in me tightens up when I see him with Joe. And, if you must know I don't enjoy the looks Joe gives to him. If it were just a feeling between Phil and me, a sort of friendship that's tripping into something else, I wouldn't care but it's not; I'm falling for the black haired boy hard and fast, and it hurts hearing them even talk to each other like they're as close as close can get. BUt I can't stop them, it's not like I own Phil..

-

When we get back from the park, Louise, Zoe, Joe, Oli and his new girlfriend Lexi are in the sitting room. "Where's the dog?" asks Zoe. 

"The place was stinking with police," says Phil. "We pegged it." 

"Ah." Zoe drinks from the mug in her hands, "I thought we were going to have a pet. " At that moment, I'm glad that I hadn't brought Colin to the squat. 

"Did they see you?" This is Joe, he's unshaven and in a torn T-shirt. I find that I'm unable to look him in the eyes knowing what him and Phil do.

"Course not," says Phil. "I told you, we didn't hang around." 

"There's going to be a party tonight," says Zoe, changing the subject. "Are you up for it, Dan?" 

"Sure, when does it start?" 

Zoe smiles. "Whenever," she says. "Late."

"We need more booze," Oli says. "I'll get some with Joe. You coming, Dan?" I'm a bit startled by this. I've never been out with Joe or Oli, and I'm not sure I want to start now. 

"If you want," I mumble, as unenthusiastically as I can. 

"It's a party," states Joe. "We've all got to help out either with money or doing a job. You've got money, haven't you?" I shrug my shoulders and he just grins wider. 

-

It must be eight o'clock when Joe knocks on my bedroom door. He's wearing a black T-shirt and jeans and, for the first time since I've met him, he seems to have washed his brown hair.

"Where do we buy the booze?" I ask. 

"You'll see," he says, swigging at a can of lager as we make our way to the kitchen. 

Oli's waiting in the corridor. "Ready to roll," he smiles. There's something about the atmosphere that I don't like. No one's looking me in the eye, it's a great party mood. 

 As I follow Joe and Oli down the stairs, Phil looks out of his room and beckons to me. He seems on edge. "Bad luck, Dan." he says loudly, add under her breath, "Watch your back, it's a setup.." I want to ask what he means, but before I can he's ducked back inside his bedroom.

Downstairs outside the front door, Oli's already in the driving seat of his old Cortina with the engine running. Joe jumps in the passenger seat. I'm about to say _'I'll get in the back then, shall I?'_ But, since neither of them seems to feel like talking, I decide to hold back the sarcasm and get in without a word.

We drive for, say, ten or fifteen minutes before we come to a high street where several of the shops are still open, their neon lights brightening up the darkness. 

"I think I'm lost," says Oli to Joe. Oli lost? That's surprising. 

"Oh dear," says Joe, like a really bad underpaid actor. The car pulls up outside of this off-licence shop, selling all kinds of drink. Casually, Joe turns round to me and says, "We're looking for a place on half moon lane. Ask the geezer in there for directions, will you, Danny?" He nods to the drinks shop where a middle aged man is standing behind the till. 

"And if he doesn't know," adds Oli, "ask him which road we should take for Piccadilly. Just keep him talking, right?" 

"We'll be doing a bit of shopping," says Joe. "If we come in, don't talk to us." 

So I get out and go into the store. The man has that tired look of someone who spends their whole life working. "You have to be eighteen to buy alcohol," he says as I approach the till. 

"I'm looking for half moon lane. You couldn't point me in the right direction, could you?"  There's something entirely innocent about my voice and manner. Even after ten days on the run, I seem to be a person that can be trusted. 

"Half moon Lane," he says. "Now that's streatham way I think." From under the till, he takes out this street directory book and starts thumbling through the pages. "Ah yes," he mutters. "It's not close. It's a bit complicated.. are your parents taking you?" 

"Yes," I say. "My dad." 

We're both looking at the A-Z when Joe and Oli wander in. I glance up, but, remembering my instructions, I return to the map. "Left at that main road?" I ask. There's a clinking of bottles behind us and, out of the corner of my eye, I see that Joe and Oli are filling two shopping baskets with spirits and wine. Suddenly I know what's going to happen but I'm powerless to act. 

As if sensing my change of mood, the shopkeeper glances up - just as the boys pull open the door and, holding the baskets to their chests, run for it.

"Hey!" With surprising speed, the man leaps from behind the till and out of the door but Oli must have left the car engine running because, with a squeal of tyres, they're off and away. 

Thanks, guys. 

I'm still in shock when the shopkeeper returns. He closes the door behind him and locks it. "Nice friends you've got," he says, breathing heavily. 

"Me?" My mouth is so dry I can hardly speak. "I never - I've never met them." 

"You can tell that to the police," goes the man, walking quietly to the phone while keeping a wary eye on me. "Don't try anything, all right." He glances to his left where, for the first time, I see a security camera. "You're on film anyway." 

Like I was someone out of a dream, I take a deep breath and grab a bottle behind me, bringing it down with full force on the the side of the till. Trying to keep the panic(!) out of my voice, I scream, "Open the door - or I" - desperately, I try to think what Phil would say - "or I'll fucking rearrange your face!"  

The man's eyes widen but he says, "Don't make it worse that it is or-" 

"Do it!" I scream, jabbing in his direction with the broken bottle top. 

"You're a bloody little fool," he spits butm seeing the look in my eyes, he backs towards the door and unlocks it. 

"Open it for me."

With a shrug, the man holds the door open. "Leave the broken bottle and we'll forget all-" But throwing the bottle to the ground, I hurl myself through the door and sprint down the street, my eyes stinging with tears. I dart down one side road, then another, before I reach a back road where there's a rubbish tip. Through the gloom, I look back down the street. All's quiet now, not even the distant siren of a police car. 

-

The party's in full swing by the time I get back to the squat. It's been a long walk and several times I catch myself thinking that I should forget it, disappear into the night, maybe go home. I don't want to give them the satisfaction. I want to show them that I can look after myself too. 

Yes, the party's started all right. I can hear it from the end of the street. When I get to the front door, it's like the old house has taken on a life of its own. Music throbs through the air like a heartbeat. I let myself in and the people in the hall - drinking, laughing, smoking - don't even give me a second look. 'Excuse me but I happen to live here,' I'm thinking as I push past them upstairs. 

There's no sign on anyone I know so I make for my room. I need to lie down and think things over. The door's open and a couple of girls I don't recognize are making out on my mattress, bottles of beer in their hands. They hardly glance at me as I walk in. 

"This is my room," I tell them.

One of the girls looks at me. "My room?" she says in a half-drunk way. "I thought everything was communal in this squat." 

I'm not in the mood for a discussion about the concept of property. "I said it's my room." 

"Charming," goes the girl who spoke before, but she stands up, swigging from the bottle in her hand. Her, I'm guessing girlfriend, gets to her feet too. "Middle-class prat," she says, as they both make for the door. 

I wander over to the broken mirror and stare at myself for a while. My eyes are still red and there's a sheen of dirt on my face where the dust has stuck to the sweat. Daniel Howell. Car thief. Straight man for an off licence robbery. On the run. Dangerous. Do not approach this boy. I find myself laughing crazily at the idea. 

Downstairs, the sound of voices and music seems to be getting louder. In my mind, I see Oli, Joe, Zoe and maybe even Phil talking, _'We fitted old Dan up good and proper, eh? Won't be seeing him again.'_ Great joke.

Oli's in the kitchen talking to Zoe, Lexi and some other bloke. He does a double-take like you see in sitcoms on Tv. "Hey, you made it," he says eventually, moving away from the group so that they won't hear what we're saying.

"No bloody thanks to you, dickhole," I hiss. 

"Hey easy, right," he says. "We thought you knew what was coming down. You were meant to do a runner when we did." 

"Do you think I'm fucking stupid? You set me up."

_"_ _What?"_ This is Zoe, who's wandered over to join us. "Why would've he done that?" 

"Anyway, you got away," Oli says, changing the subject. "What happened?" 

"I bottled him," I say casually. "In the face." This lie seems to impress them both deeply. "So now it's robbery with violence," I say. "You knew there were security cameras there, I suppose?" 

Oli shrugs like this was nothing new. "You don't say," he says, wide-eyed and sarcastic.

 "Yeah," I say. "We're stars in our own little movie." They were about to head off when I ask casually, "Was this JOe's idea, setting me up?"

"I told you," Oli goes. "I had no idea about-" 

 "Sure." I turn my back on them. There's an open bottle of beer on the kitchen table. I pick it up and take a swig, feeling ready to face Joe. Who, as it happens, is nowhere to be found. I look in every room, in every corner where people are lying around, but there's no sign of Joe or Phil. 

Eventually I try Phil's bedroom. The door's locked which is strange. I keep knocking. Joe's voice eventually tells me to piss off, or words that sound more like a slur. That's strange? Why is Joe in Phil's room, with supposedly Phil. I decide to ignore it, taking another swig of my beer, I go back to my room to plan for the future 

 

 

 


End file.
